


Closing Doors

by china_shop



Category: White Collar
Genre: Episode Related, Fic, Goodbyes, Hugs, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-07-15
Updated: 2011-07-15
Packaged: 2017-10-21 10:43:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/224307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/china_shop/pseuds/china_shop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sometimes it's hard to say goodbye. / Episode tag for 3.04.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Closing Doors

"Sometimes it's hard to say goodbye," said Neal. The night was clear, warm enough despite the earlier rain, and Peter was a solid presence at his side. One he'd miss, no question. Neal glanced sideways to see if his words had landed, had made the right impression, but there was only Peter's profile, the slight curve of his lip. He couldn't possibly know what Neal and Mozzie had planned.

Neal looked back to the skyline, and after a moment he moved toward the parapet, glad when Peter followed. Mozzie and Jeffries were quoting again, and Neal wanted to give them some space. He wanted to be alone with Peter. He cleared his throat. "So," he said. "All I'll ever be is a con? You know, Mozzie thinks that too, but he says it with less of a sneer."

"Prove us both wrong." Peter leaned next to him against the cool rough concrete.

Neal couldn't look at him. It was one thing to spit out accusations and retaliate in the heat of the moment. To have the plausible deniability of a case, an Irish mobster and a staged fight. It was another matter entirely to acknowledge the truth of their jibes. But Neal wanted to, wanted the intimate adrenaline rush that came with honesty. Mozzie need never know. "Seems like nothing I do is ever proof enough," said Neal.

"You want to know why?" Peter was looking at him—Neal could hear it, but he couldn't return the gaze. Could hardly breathe. "You'd been working for me for less than two months when you stole a two million dollar portrait out from under my nose," Peter said matter-of-factly. "And the only reason you told me was because Dorsett threatened Taryn's life. You couldn't even stay straight for two months, Neal. I suppose I should be glad you hadn't already fenced it when Dorsett called you."

"It wasn't like that," said Neal, stung. He turned to meet Peter's gaze, an old grievance rising to the surface. "I could have told you then, but you wouldn't let me explain. You wouldn't listen."

"Because I knew you'd only try to con me." Peter's words were harsh, but there was nothing cruel about his expression. Neal glared at him until he sighed. "Fine. Tell me now. Why did you take the Haustenberg?"

The story spilled out—Julianna Laszlo and her grandmother's connection with Haustenberg, the inscription on the back of the painting. The tale had lost much of its urgency over time, but Neal played up his role of benefactor as best he could. Mozzie had called him Robin Hood at the time. Everyone loved a Robin Hood, right?

But Peter just looked weary. When Neal finished, he shook his head. "You know that stunt could have cost me my job."

"What?" Neal frowned. "It wasn't your fault."

"Yeah, well, Father Time isn't the only one who can be cruel," Peter told him. "The FBI has its moments. Why the hell didn't you just come to me instead of forging the damned painting?"

Neal allowed himself a moment's bitter vindication: Peter assumed the worst, even now. "It wasn't a forgery," he said. "I signed it. It was a copy."

"You—" Peter stared at him with mingled horror and exasperation. "You signed it?"

"Other than the Haustenberg, the only things I've stolen while I've worked for you are the music box, the key to my anklet and the gun from Akihiro Tanaka when I went after Fowler." Peter already knew about all of those; there was no need for misdirection or evasion.

"And Ford's counterfeiting plate," said Peter without rancor.

Neal blinked. Peter knew about the plate? "That doesn't count. I only returned it to its—" he started, but Peter's raised eyebrows pulled him up short. "And that," he agreed reluctantly.

"You're an opportunist," said Peter. There was enough affection on his face and in his tone that Neal knew it wasn't an accusation. It was just another of Peter's beliefs finding voice. "You take whatever you can get, and if you can't steal it yourself, you send Mozzie or Alex after it."

That wasn't right or fair. "It's not like that. I'm not—I've _tried_ , Peter."

Surely Peter knew how hard he'd worked to follow the rules. How important their working relationship was to him.

"You've been lying to me ever since the warehouse," said Peter.

"I've never—" Again, Peter's steady gaze made the denial dry up on Neal's tongue. He swallowed. There wasn't much left to lose; he could hardly lower Peter's opinion of him any further. "If you think that," he said carefully, "why did you call a truce?"

Peter's gaze wavered, and he turned back to face the skyline, the Chrysler building a reminder—apparently to both of them—of Neal's duplicity. "I can't stay mad at you for being who you are," said Peter. "What's the point? And I don't want to be mad at you, if this is all the time we've got."

Neal studied him. Intelligent eyes, stubborn chin, that familiar thin-lipped mouth that could curve with amusement or enthusiasm, rendering Peter's expression almost goofy. He was impassive now, though, hiding, and Neal thought he knew why. He leaned in a little, trying not to sound as hopeful as he felt. "You know what? You won't accept that I've changed. You can't accept it, because if you did, you'd have to deal with the fact that you're in love with me."

Peter didn't even try to deny the truth of Neal's words. "And you won't give up your dream of cutting loose and getting gone," he shot back, "because if you did, you'd have to deal with the fact that you're in love with my wife."

"Is that what you think?" Neal stared, struck by how calm he sounded.

Peter glanced sideways. "Tell me I'm wrong."

"You're half right." Neal caught his arm and tried to turn him, to kiss him. To _show_ him it wasn't just Elizabeth he loved.

Peter's eyes widened, but he held Neal off. His hands were hot through the thin cotton of Neal's shirt, pushing him away. "No."

"You want me," said Neal, lowering his voice. "Don't pretend you don't."

"And tomorrow or the next day or the day after that, I wake up and you're gone?" Peter pursed his lips. "No, thanks."

They were so close, edging toward a point of love triumphant, no return, and Neal was prepared to promise anything to tip the balance, telling himself all the while that it was devilry and reckless desire that was driving him forward, not desperation. "What if I didn't go?" he said. "What if I stayed?"

It was too much to offer—Mozzie would be appalled—but Neal couldn't stop himself.

"Oh, no," said Peter, putting even more space between them. Neal's desperation came crashing down around his ears, but Peter didn't seem to notice. "I'm not here to be your anchor. I didn't sign up for that, and neither did Elizabeth."

"Peter—" He'd chanced everything, and Peter was saying no.

"You need to figure it out for yourself," said Peter, his words an echo of their after-dinner conversation just a few weeks ago, when Peter had boasted about his life and made it clear he didn't need Neal. To be reminded now, in the midst of Peter's rejection, was infuriating.

"And what if I've already figured it out?" said Neal, grabbing Peter's lapels and yanking him around so Peter's body landed hard up against him, one long leg settling neatly between Neal's thighs. Behind Neal, the concrete parapet was unyielding. The combination made him gasp.

Peter's hands had landed on Neal's shoulder and his hip, and he actually seemed on course for kissing Neal, but the gasp made him pull back. "What is it?"

"Bruise from when you threw me against the bar at the betting parlor. It's nothing." Neal met his gaze, willing him to succumb. Mozzie and Jeffries had possession of Neal's room, but there was plenty Neal and Peter could do out here in the privacy afforded by the night.

But Peter was pulling back, withdrawing his leg. His hand slid to Neal's ribs, fingers curving back to gently cover the ache. "It's not nothing. I didn't mean to hurt you."

Neal rolled his eyes, despite himself. "You're fine with telling me you'll never trust me, but God forbid I get a bruise? Really?"

"Yeah." Peter's smile was wry. At least he recognized the irony. "Come here," he said, and he hauled Neal into a hug. A determinedly nonsexual hug, it turned out, but Peter's embrace was strong, warm and tender. It felt like the first real hug Neal had had in years. He screwed his eyes shut and pressed his face into the crook of Peter's neck, hugging back, breathing in Peter's scent. An opportunist, taking what he could get. Maybe Peter was right about him after all.

Peter began to murmur in his ear, and at first it was just a rumble, so low Neal could barely make out the words over his own heartbeat, but after a while, he began to hear what Peter was saying.

"—story about the family Jeffries found for him?" Peter tightened his hold, but he didn't put any pressure on Neal's bruise. He was being careful, his voice mesmerizing. "How the couple's son framed him for theft, and rather than stay and clear his name, Mozzie got scared and ran off. Hit the streets? That's a reasonable response for a twelve year old kid. You're not a kid, Neal."

"You don't know what you're talking about," said Neal, but he didn't let go. If anything, he hung on tighter, fisting his hands in the back of Peter's jacket, probably wrinkling it beyond repair. It was hard to say goodbye, but it was harder to leave without saying it, and this might be his only chance, however indirect.

Hot fingers brushed the back of his neck, and Peter carried on, relentless. "There's a way out of this, and you won't find it by running."

He sounded so certain. Neal felt his resolve begin to weaken, a sign he needed to step back and clear his head. He started to move away, and Peter released him instantly. Neal folded his arms. "You should go."

"Yeah." Peter looked tired but peaceful. "Okay, I should go." He touched Neal lightly on the shoulder, a parting gesture, and walked across to the main door to the house—not Neal's French doors. Neal watched him leave, watched as this stage of his life—CI, FBI consultant, partner to Special Agent Peter Burke—receded down to a single moment: Peter walking out that door. But Peter stopped on the threshold and turned, his face half in shadow. "Neal."

"Yeah?"

"Door's always open," he said. "You know where to find me." He left.

Neal leaned against the parapet, the New York skyline at his back, and stared into the darkness, thinking about all Peter had said, all he knew, and wishing against reason that there really was a way to call a halt to his and Mozzie's departure. A way to stay and see what this life might make of him.

But Mozzie would never agree to stay, and Neal had cast in his lot with his friend. He owed Mozzie his life, half a dozen times over, and now the only way out was forward.


End file.
